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Dreams and Gibes 



BY 



EDWARD SAPIR 




BOSTON 

THE POET LORE COMPANY 

THE GORHAM PRESS 



Copyright, 191 7, by Edward Sapir 

All Rights Reserved ^ ^Cv^A 



Epitaph 0/ a Philosopher appeared in The Roycroft Anthology 

The Moth in The Minaret. They are here reproduced 

through the courtesy of these magazines. 



NOV -! 1917 

The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A. 



©aA476856 ^ ^ 



TO 
MY WIFE 



3' 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Mislabeled Menagerie 9 

Monks in Ottawa 11 

The Builders 13 

The Blind Man 13 

The Old Man 14 

The Man of Letters 15 

The Professor 16 

The Metaphysician 16 

Epitaph of a Philosopher 17 

The Clergyman 18 

The Learned Jew 20 

The Woman on the Bridge 22 

To a Maiden Sweet and Pure 23 

The Stenographer 24 

To a Recruiting Girl 26 

Professors in War-Time 27 

How Diplomats Make War 28 

Epitaph of a Soldier 30 

The Old Maid and the Private 30 

Delilah 32 

The Reporter Congratulates the Orator ... 34 

The Painting 34 

The Dainty and the Hungry Man .... 35 

The Water Nymph 38 

Curtains 43 

My Boy 45 

Dandelions 46 

The Other Side 47 

Mutual Understanding 49 

A Conversation 50 

The Dreamer Fails of Success ...... 50 

5 



CONTENTS 

t>AGE 

Discords 53 

Love 54 

Our Love 55 

Dangling Corpses 56 

To Debussy 57 

Dirty Spring 58 

An Easter Day 59 

Summer in the Woods 60 

Before the Storm 62 

A Moonless Night 62 

The Rain 63 

Water 63 

The Moth 64 

Helpless Revolt 64 

Liberty 65 

Dust 66 

Wings 66 

Loneliness 67 

Vexation 68 

Snared 69 

The Soul 70 

A Prayer for Preservation jz 



DREAMS AND GIBES 



THE MISLABELED MENAGERIE 

I took a trip to the menagerie 

To see the bear, opossum, kangaroo, 

Rhinoceros and elephant, and all 

My other friends whom oft I'd wondered at 

Behind their bars. They're fascinating things 

To gaze upon — each seems a perfect symbol 

Incarnate of human virtue or of vice 

Or oftenest of mirth-compelling foible. 

That's why I look at them as medicine. 

Just think your social-climbing friend 

Who leaves you in the lurch as nimbly he jumps 

From eminence to eminence until 

He loses sight of you down in the valley. 

Just think him carcassed in a kangaroo — 

Are 5^ou revenged or not? and would you change 

With him? That's why I think zoology 

Is worth one's serious while — it soothes the nerves. 

Hold on, I'm getting off the track; I started 

To tell you how I went to see my friends 

Of the menagerie. And first the bear 

I visited, but in his den, if den 

You'd call it, I beheld a monkey frisk 

And scamper round as though the label, Ursus, 

Were meant for him, so much at home he seemed. 

I moved on to the ostrich cage and saw 

A camel gravely chew the cud and squint 

At me as though to say, "Too bad, my friend. 

About that ostrich label. Were he you, 

He'd stick his head in the sand, thus deftly 

Annihilate the label, and his peace 

Of ostrich mind regain." An Orient look 

Of wisdom spread along the camel's face. 



And when I came to where I'd always seen 
The tiger nobly lash his tail and found 
A fox ignobly point his tail to earth, 
I knew I'd come to Topsyturvydom. 
The elephant was labeled ass, the ass 
Had grown a mane and pair of lion's ears — 
Or so the label gravely said, — the lion 
Had shrunk, it seemed, into a porcupine. 

"A fussing pedagogue, no doubt, has tried 

His hand," I thought, "on some new labeling 

scheme." 
Just then I met a keeper. ''What's the trouble, 

friend?" 
I asked, ''these labels are all wrong." "Oh, well," 
Said he, "we only moved the animals 
This morning, and we've not got round as yet 
To move the labels. We'll attend to that." 

Discomfited, I turned to go, and mused 
Upon my way. I ran my human friends 
All through the label gauntlet and a flash — 
Like Archimedes' famed Eureka — flamed 
Across my mind. Why, yes, mislabeled all ! 
Mislabeled all! The grocer — was he not 
A sturdy disputant in politics? 
His label should have "statesman" been, no less. 
The mayor — hard to say, but I've no doubt 
That "grocer" would have served. Of clergymen 
I know, two should have "broker" called themselves 
And one just "simpleton." "Philanthropist" 
Is just the word, or should be, for the soul 
That comes each month to buy my rags and bottles, 
A starving tender-hearted wretch. And so 
With all the rest of them — mislabeled all! 
lO 



MONKS IN OTTAWA 

Right on the busy street I saw them — 

Two big fat hulking plodding forms, 

Strangely stuck in the hurly-burly 

Like creeping flies in seething amber. 

They jostled the present — 

Clank of trolley-cars, 

Lumbering whir of autos skidding past, 

Mincing French-heeled girls with brown porous 

stockings 
Coquettishly ribboned between petticoat and shoes, 
Newsboys, 
A crowd seeking fulfilment of hope from the news 

bulletin, 
Catastrophic pictures stuck in front of the movie 

theatres — 
They jostled the present. 
They smelt of the past. 
Plodding on imperturbably. 

And when my eye first caught them, 
"Mother of God!" said something within me, 
"Holy, holy! Bosh perhaps, but holy! 
Ascetic purity and mystic contemplation. 
Prayer, flagellation ! 
St. Francis of Assisi, 
God, Church, Pope, candles, faith!" 
And when I came up close — 
They looked like pregnant women 
Wrapped in heavy brown robes. 
Wearing sandals. 

And I got a glimpse of a heavy silver crucifix 
Tortured with crude suffering — 
I heard them mumbling in their rumbling voices — 
Aux champignons I fancied I could disentangle — 
And they were munching peanuts. 
II 



THE BUILDERS 

With confident smile, robust, clean-limbed 

Of soul, you see the world as a jumble 

Of millions of little blocks that have tumbled from 
their places 

Or have not tumbled into them; 

And you, and others clean-limbed like yourself, 

Roll up your sleeves and spade them up in heaps 

And disentangle them one by one, 

Then carefully 50U place each block square to its 
neighbor 

And rear up palaces. 

They're never finished, for the wind and hail and 
rain 

Will mock at them. 

You do your best to keep them in repair. 

What little time you have left over from the spad- 
ing of more blocks. 

I like your ruined palaces — 

A little angular perhaps — 

I cannot but like them when I see you, 

Confidently smiling, robust, clean-limbed of soul, 

Bending in pride over them. 

And yet my ej^es rebel — 

Short-sighted am I or else you sufFer from illusions, 

which ? — 
I do not seem to see these blocks 
(I see 3^our geometric palaces) 
But only finely powdered stufif 
That lends itself to shifting forms and fancies. 
I, too, build palaces — 
You say they're formless? — 
Palaces of gracious curve and shifting color. 
12 



The wind and hall and rain cannot harm them, 
For they shift of themselves chameleon-like. 
It's as you will — 
I'd rather work in powder than in blocks. 

THE BLIND MAN 

Stone blind. That's why they could not fool him. 
When they talked to him, he heard the words, 
And, more than words, he heard the heart that 

pulsed beneath. 
As he sat in his lonely hall of eternal night. 
His soul was quick to catch each fleeting nuance 
Of the voice, each tell-tale accent lost to seeing ears. 
Candor and hypocrisy, like as two peas, he held apart 

as easily 
As grain from chaff, 
For he was stone blind, and could not be deceived. 



n 



THE OLD MAN ' 

Yes, I am old. My sons are grown and wed, 
And I am left alone to end my days 
In peace and dull content. I've had my fill 
Of life and pleasure, too — of love and joy 
Of strife and fruits of combat — and a dream 
Or two have bathed my daily round in gold, 
In misty gold that interposed itself 
Between me and the chilly air of fact — 
How can one else drag out his days and keep 
His heart unseared? But now that age has clung 
To me with gently mocking smile (as though 
To say, "You cannot shake me off"), I need 
No golden mist to shield me. I can see 
Unruffled what in younger daj^s might well 
Have chilled my ardor, dulled the edge of life. 
For now I know that such is naught but sauce 
To flavor with its irony the dish 
Of life. The vinegar that poisons youth 
(And hence in self-defence they dub it wine) 
I welcome with the sweet. They call me old. 
The young ones, knowingly contend that I 
Have lost my step and fallen out of line, 
A.nd say I've not the faculty to taste 
Their vintages. I say their vintages 
Are just the same old liquid (sourish stuf?) 
We used to sip, but dished in bottles new. 
They smile contempt, I answ^er back with grin 
Of "Wait and see." They say I'm way behind 
The times ; I chuckle "That may be. but you 
Run hard! catch up with me and Father Time." 



14 



THE MAN OF LETTERS 

He had a stock of pretty heirlooms, 

Left him by his aunts and grandames, grandames of 

his aunts, and aunts of grandames. 
All his life he played with them and sorted them 
And built up pretty patterns out of them. 
Graceful and shiny; 

Circles, crosses, diamonds, and swastikas he made, 
And toyed with shapes refreshingly irregular, 
As when he'd dent a kink into a rigid square 
And talk of a wayward frolicking Gypsy-like 

rhythm. 
He grew to be exquisitely expert with dainty shapes. 
But when he w^ished to make a solid masterpiece. 
He filched a coat or waistcoat from his neighbor. 
Strung his trinkets on in circles, crosses, diamonds, 

and swastikas 
And lo! the thing had mass and glitter, too. 
''Sublime!" the people said, " 'tis solid matter 
Decked with subtle art," 

And lauded most the noble garment underneath. 
His right eye slyly winked his left: 
"Stick your pretty baubles on your neighbor's coat, 
They'll call it yours." 

I gave my literary friend a thought. 
He made a volume out of it 

And now, they say, he sits with Chesterton and 
Shaw. 



15 



TKE PROFESSOR 

I doubt if you know how wise I am. 

Last year I published a heavy tome 

Of well-nigh eight-hundred pages. 

The subject? It matters not; 

But this I know, that only two men in the world 

Understood (or partly understood) its learned fill. 

One was a spectacled privat-docent in Bonn, 

The other was myself. 

And yet some Philistines begrudge my salary! 

THE METAPHYSICIAN 

I watched the dog 

As he chased his tail 

Merrily, merrily round. 

Once he thought he had it, 

Then he yelped with glee ; 

But no, he found he was in error, 

So had to chase his tail once more 

Merrily, merrily round. 

I cannot say if he's at it yet — 
I left him as busy as ever. 



i6 



EPITAPH OF A PHILOSOPHER 

I had a perfect system when I lived, 

Flawless, water-proof to fallacy; 

The world but seemed a string of episodes 

Each born to prove my system. 

Nature and Man and God were each assigned a 

comfortable niche 
And Art and Law both fitted like a glove. 
But ever since they dug a hole for me, 
To meditate in till the further reach of time, 
I've thought out many systems more — 
One a day's about my average — 
And lo! each system fits more perfectly than any 

other. 
Of late I've tried to find a system 
Unsusceptible of flawless demonstration; 
Alas! I have not found one yet. 
O gentle tombstone-visitor, have you? 



17 



THE CLERGYMAN 

I met him in the smoker of a Montreal-bound Pull- 
man. 

At first his uncleft collar, separated from a pair of 
shrewdly twinkling e3^es 

By energetic chin and Roman nose, 

Kept me distant, for I'm not a cleric-fancier. 

We were alone, he studying his railroad folder — 
times of leaving and arriving — 

I yawning as I looked for pretty faces in a theatre 
magazine. 

We could not keep it up — 

The silence hurt, it dinned so in our ears. 

The weather ran the gauntlet first, 

The crops and prospects for a ready flow of money 

Seemed to occupy us gravely next, 

A little politics for entree brought us to the anec- 
dotal stage. 

We got quite chummy, he and I — 

Three hours or so we had to let each know 

How clever t'other was. 

He told some good ones — oh, most proper ones, 

But good ones. 

My wares he sampled like a connoisseur — 

Shrieking with laughter when 'twas safe, 

Rocking back and forth. 

Slapping his hands down on his knees ; 

And when 'twas safe, but not so safe, 

He laughed again but did without the shrieking, 
rocking, slapping; 

And when you could not call it safe (according to 
the parlor code), 

i8 



He smiled an angel's smile and, in the manner of a 
lightning-rod, 

He told one of his own, 

A good one — O, most proper, 

But still a good one. 

He had an endless stock, but I soon tired 

And turned the talk to church. 

There, too, his fund was inexhaustible: 

Statistics, Red Cross benefits, a hundred shifts to 
interest the young. 

Amateur theatricals and lectures on the Eskimo, 

All these and much besides he spoke of with au- 
thority. 

We passed the time most entertainingly. 

The train pulled into town; 

We parted friends, exchanging cards and club ad- 
dresses. 

I hurried to the office, thinking him over. 

''Good sort," I mused, "a human chap. 

As human as they make them; 

Leaves his religious dope at home when up against 
a man." 

And then I wondered for a second 

(I'd reached the office building, had no time to 
bother thinking), 

''Does he leave religious dope at home 

When up against his crowd in church?" 



19 



THE LEARNED JEW 

His learning was a many-chambered treasure-house. 
He knew the Sabbath and the week-day rituals by 

heart 
And in a trice could mumble off in prayer a dozen 

pages 
Of the closest printed type, while thinking of his 

slender weekly gains. 
He knew the Pentateuch by heart and freely used Its 

wordy commentators 
To salt the bon-mots of his daily life. 
Did you dare to quote a passage from the sacred 

book — 
Anywhere from Genesis to Chronicles (the Hebrew 

version has them last) — 
And slur a vowel or misplace a prefixed article, 
Beware! he'd pounce upon you, smile contempt, and 

make you feel a fumbling school-boy; 
He'd clean forget the reverence due a well-filled 

pocket-book — 
Money's a thing of earth, phIlolog}^'s a thing of 

God! 

The Talmud was his favorite picnic-ground; 

Give him a heavy tome (one of the Babylonian set) 

Wherein the cryptic Aramaic text Is swallowed 

In the enormous welter of the Hebrew glosses, 
exegesis, disputatious halrlet-splltting. 

Give him this and three or four long-bearded dis- 
putants 

To wrestle with him for the uttermost possession 
of the law divine 

(By aid of frenzied gestures and an intonation slid- 
ing recklessly from roof to cellar), 
20 



Give him this and let him split a split hair finer jet 
(Sometimes he'd catch the Rabbi napping, bowl him 

over with an exegetic point), 
And he was happier than any hobby-riding child. 
The Talmud was his dreamland refuge from the 

world. 

What was his outward shell? What met the Gen- 
tile's eye? 

Why, merely this : he kept a peanut stand on Hester 
Street. 



21 



THE WOMAN ON THE BRIDGE 

I passed her on the bridge; 
Her image is with me yet, 
And I shall not soon forget 
The sadness of her face. 

I shall not soon forget 

Her pinched and haggard face; 

I would I could erase 

The memory of her eyes, 

Her eyes that empty stared 
Into an empty air, 
Her eyes that did not dare 
To look at what they saw. 

And her thin and bony frame 
And the narrow chest so flat — 
But her eyes, her eyes, 'twas that 
That I cannot forget. 

Lord, her eyes have bored 
Themselves into my soul, 
The've bored themselves a hole 
Into my aching heart. 

1 have not seen her since, 
I do not know her tale, 
But this I know without fail, 
Her life is misery. 



22 



TO A MAIDEN SWEET AND PURE 

Yes, you are sweet and pure; 
Your eyes are calm and open, 
Looking straight at me without a blink. 
Your hair is neatly parted, 
Neatly braided and beribboned. 
Your lips are parted daintily. 
Your teeth — I'd call them pearls. 
Were not the praise so hackneyed. 
And your smile is very pleasant to behold, 
Bright and sunny. 

And all about you floats an air of purity 
So fresh, it were most base to blow the wind of 
passion. 

Ah me, you're charming, girl, and very sweet. 

And yet there's want in you of still more charm. 

And shall I tell you why? 

But then you must not look at me so open-eyed, 

So straight at me without a blink. 

I would your eyes were stormier, 

I would they gave a hint of rufliled waters under- 
neath ; 

I would about your head there rayed 

A silky aureole of saucy straying hair. 

Not quite so neatly prisoned; 

I would your pearly teeth were strung 

Not quite so motionless between your daintily parted 
lips; 

And most of all I would your smile 

Were sunny warmth instead of sunny light alone. 

I would not have your purity less fresh and pure. 

I would but have it crown a glowing maidenhood, 

Not merely grace a perfect calm; 

I would, you maiden sweet and pure, 

I would some hidden yearning 

Were mirrored well nigh imperceptibly 

In your sweet countenance. 
23 



THE STENOGRAPHER 

The minutes lengthen into hours, the hours stretch 
out to days, 

Day follows day, day follows day. 

Hour after hour I click the typewriter 

And grind out words and words and yet more 
words. 

Sometimes I cramp my fingers round a pencil 

And set it racing o'er the pad 

In swift obedience to my boss's voice, 

I let it dance a headlong dance of splashing drib- 
bling strokes — 

These, too, are words and words and yet more 
words. 

Sometimes I'm all alone. 

Sometimes the fingers droop, forgetful of their task. 

Leaving my thoughts to roam unfettered in a garden. 

To climb a hillock and to spy the distant land. 

The land is covered with a mist. 

Warm and palpitating; 

And from its bosom floats to me a fragrance that 

intoxicates. 
And flames leap forth, 
Aud luring sounds are wafted to me 
And sometimes I catch a syllable or two 
That make me blush with pleasure and with shame. 
But sometimes from the bosom of the mist 
Come cooling breezes, honey-laden, 
That play about my head and brush caresses on my 

hair 
And leave their honey on my lips and on my drowsy 

eyes. 

24 



"O land of mist, O land of hope, O land of wild de- 
sire! 

What have you, blessed flaming land, in store for 
me?" 

Sometimes my thoughts unfettered in a garden 

roam, 
Yet not to tarry long. 
A moment jolts me back to stare at keyboard and 

the letter still unfinished; 
Then there's "As per your order of the 7th" and all 

the rest of it to do. — 
You see, I do not always click the typewriter, 
I do not always dash the pencil on its dancing 

course. 



25 



TO A RECRUITING GIRL 

Silly girl! 

Urge him not on to slaughter and to sacrifice of 

self 
With your reproachful eyes, 
With your scornful beauty. 
Let him wrestle with himself 
And see the light 
As 'tis given him to see — 
To kill or spare, 
To die or live. 

Silly girl! 

Why desecrate his struggle, 

Why pour into his agony of soul 

The fiery drop of sex 

To goad him on? 

Let him crucify himself! 

Nail him not to the cross! 

And you? 

Tremble ! 

Cast your eyes downward to the earth 

In awe that men their own destruction will. 

Look not at him brazenly — 

Like a wanton. 



26 



PROFESSORS IN WAR-TIME 

Ho, professors, lend a hand! 

Stand not aloof 

And wisely smile 

While all the world is soaked in blood and groans 
wuth pain. 

You know the reasons for it all — 

Do you? — 

The tangled web of cause and effect 

That strains and pulls and tightens 

Till it has the world caught in its hellish grip, 

Fly-fashion in a spider's web; 

You know the why and how. 

Perchance you can distil from all the histories, dis- 
quisitions, encyclopaedias 

That you have writ and read 

Some kindly counsel or ray of hope 

To loose the web. 

Let your owlish smile thaw out 

Into the human glance of human kind. 

Ho, professors, lend a hand 

And help us out of hell! 



27 



HOW DIPLOMATS MAKE WAR 

Have you ever seen a picture of an ancient 
House on piles deep-driven in a lake? 
They used to live in them in old Helvetia 
For safety's sake — at least I'm told as much by 
archaeologists. 

Well, I saw one used myself — it's now a bit more 

than two years ago — 
A great big house all full of people — men and 

women 
And young ones, too. 

My, you'd think they never knew they had but 
Rotten timbers 'twixt them and death — 
They seemed so gay and unconcerned and safe! 

And then I saw a crowd of boys amuse themselves 

on land 
At throwing stones — 
Great big stones they threw in rivalry. 
At first it seemed to me they pelted one the other, 
But no! they aimed their shots 
Straight at the piles that held the house, 
And all the while they laughed and cried with glee — 
Such sport it was. 

The dwellers in the house looked on — 
And they, too, laughed and cried with glee, 
For the piles were strong — no need to fear. 

And by and by the boys to the uttermost 
Strained themselves. 

They yelled and cried with fury, for none would 
be outdone ; 

28 



They hurled great boulders they could barely lift, 
Hurled them headlong at the piles. 
The dwellers in the house looked on — 
And they, too, yelled and cried with fury, 
For each one bet on his favorite boy. 

They of the house egged on the throwers of stones, 
Who lashed themselves to greater fury, for none 

would be outdone. 
The stones went whirling thick, 
So thick they nearly hid the piles, 
One could not see the budging of the piles. 
One could not hear them bend and creak. 

In a trice the piles gave way, 

I saw the house tip and come with a splash. 

It spilled the people. 

They sprawled and fought for life, 

And many drowned. 

But the boys kept up their heated yells 

And quarreled bravely — 

They quarreled bravely on dry land. 



29 



EPITAPH OF A SOLDIER 

I died for king and native land, 
I died for justice and the right, 
But most of all I died because a shell 
Just caught me in the nick of time 
And finished me. 

THE OLD MAID AND THE PRIVATE 

He had come home on a furlough, 
Left hand in a sling, his right leg cut away; 
He'd seen some baj^onet work at Neuve Chapelle, 
His mutilated self, astir on crutch, bore witness to 

the music he had heard. 
They called him hero. 
His maiden aunts and a w^hole bevy of maiden 

friends of maiden aunts 
Lionized him to their hearts' content, 
Lionized him till he yawned with boredom. 
Now one old maid addressed herself to him 
With ardent patriotism. 
In accents stern and threatening 
She spewed her venom on the hated Boches, 
She burned their wicked bodies in a Hell 
That made th' Inferno of Alighieri look like Para- 
dise. 

Oh the Germans, 

Oh the dastard sons of Beelzebub, 

Oh fiendish hosts of evil! 

Where is the cruel death that would not be a 
mercy to them, 

Where the torture smacking not of meek forgive- 
ness? 

30 



No quarter! no quarter! 

And her eyes blazed a thousand lights — 

One saw she had been beautiful in days gone by. 

The private listened dutifully, 

Coughed a little cough and fidgeted about. 

This atmosphere was very tense, he thought. 

"Oh well," after a bit he meekly interposed, 

"The Kaiser, he's a bad one, sure enough. 

But these here common chaps, 

They're pretty much the same as me and all the 

rest of us — 
Pretty decent chaps, you know, 
That kill and die. 
Just do as they are told. 
I wouldn't stick a bayonet into one 
If I could help it, that's a fact; 
Some prisoners I've known 
Are jolly fine, now that's another." 

"Impossible!" she snapped, 

Her eyes "No quarter!" blazed. 

"I'd crush them all like vermin, 

Stick them till they bleed to death like hogs!" 

"Maybe," he said, "but, then, you women-folk have 

got us beat 
On spunk. We've no such bravery." 



31 



DELILAH 

Did you say you're strong? 

Did you say your will is free to loose and break? 

Did you vaunt your precious brain, 

Cunning weaver of a gossamer web of beautiful 

dreams, 
Cunning w eaver of an intricate maze of truth ? 

But I am stronger than you. 

Your will to loose and break is fettered when I 

will. 
Your precious brain is slave to me, 
For than your beautiful dreams more beautiful 

am I, 
And than your maze of truth more true is my 

treacherous self. 

For you are the ice, 

And I am the sun that melts the ice. 

For you are the cold, 

And I am the heat that kills the cold. 

For you are the colorless glass, 

And I am the glow that suffuses the colorless glass 

with a radiant hue. 
For you are mind. 
And I am the passion that burns the mind. 

I have but to pour the light of my beautiful eyes 

On your starving face, 

And you are my slave. 

I have but to dazzle your eyes 

With the dazzling light and the clinging warmth 

of my beautiful smiles, 
And you are my slave. 

32 



I have but to shower my glistening knee-long tresses 

of black 
On your hungering face, 
And you are my slave. 

I have but to clasp my shining arms about you, 
And I have but to press my bosom against your 

throbbing heart, 
And I have but to press my lips on your thirsty lips, 
And you are my utter slave. 

For you are the stone, 
And I am the fire that cracks the stone. 
For you are the tree. 
And I am the flame that chars the tree. 
For you are longing. 

And I am the laughing maiden that lures and ca- 
resses and tortures. 
For you are desire. 
And I am the love that meets desire. 



33 



THE REPORTER CONGRATULATES THE 
ORATOR 

Yes, sir, I heard your speech. 

'Twas wonderful to sail along the sunlit flow 

Of words that gently streamed into my ear, 

To glide like passive twig from swirl to eddy in 
the current. 

You held us captive for an hour — 

Two hours, no doubt, you might have platform- 
chained our eyes and ears — 

And generaled our thoughts and sentiments to march 
with yours. 

How did you do it? 

I ask because my paper wants a column of report 

In summary. I've struggled hard this hour 

Or more to get the gist of what you said — 

Just gist — on paper; 

Bah! I can't do better, sir, than three poor miserable 
lines. 

THE PAINTING 

He wove a color-fabric out of paint 

That warmed the heart, 

He poured out light upon his canvas 

Till the eye was drunk with delight. 

Spots and streaks he dealt out recklessly, 

And when he'd finished — 

See! a perfect vision sunned itself before you. 

They looked at it and asked, 

"What does it mean?" 

He mumbled in reply, 

"A little louder, please. 

I cannot hear; 

My ears are not as long as yours." 

34 



THE DAINTY AND THE HUNGRY MAN 

The Dainty Man 

I offer you sweet cakes, a thousand tasty morsels 
To tickle your palate. 
Eat and rejoice. 

The Hungry Man 

No. Your sweets disgust me. 
I crave a rougher fare. 

I'll try my teeth on coarse bread — husks and all. 
I want the stuff of brawn and muscle, the stuff 
that life is made of. 

The Dainty Man 

And let me show you my flower garden of languor- 
ous, intoxicating perfumes. 

Each breath shall be to you a sheer delight. 

You shall inhale the haunting violet, the enervating 
rose, the teasing mint. 

The Hungry Man 

No. Your perfumes choke me. 

Give me the salt-laden tang of the ocean, the scent 

of horses' dung. 
And the odor of smouldering leaves. 
I would not shun the stench of the slums, for there 

is life. 

35 



The Dainty Man 

And your ears I shall fill with splendid sonorities, 
With the liquid warblings of flutes and the gentle 

boomings of kettle-drums. 
The harmonious hum of happy voices shall fill your 

ears. 

The Hungry Man 

I would not be lulled. 

I want my ears to tingle with shouts and with 

shrieks. 
The thunderbolt and the creaking of ungreased 

axles 
Must thrill me. 
And my ears strain to catch the whispers of the 

night. 

The Dainty Man 

Come, see the rainbow arched o'er the earth, 
See the glowing tints merge. 
Would not 3^our eyes feast on the setting sun, 
And flutter at the fluttering wings of the humming- 
bird? 

The Hungry Man 

Rather the tangled green and gray of the forest. 

Rather the tangled motley crowds in the street. 

My eye roams through the thick of life; 

My eye seeks the dancing feet and the rows of tene- 
ments, 

The sunlight peeping into alleys and the palace 
bathed in fog. 

36 



The Dainty Man 

I bring you many joys, subtle and rare; 
I shall soothe your troubled heart with lovely images 
And with thoughts serene. 

The world I shall make for you into a lovely and 
serene abode. 

The Hungry Man 

But the joy unmingled with pain is as death to me. 

And more to me than thoughts serene are the striv- 
ings and turmoils of the heart, 

And more to me than lovely images is the wayward 
current of life. 

I seek no abode; 

I desire to thread life's mazes in the open. 

The Dainty Man 

Then take to yourself a faith, 
Or you will lose your way. 

The Hungry Man 

I want no leading strings. 

Here and there, and then and now, 

I must be equally at home on the earth. 

The Dainty Man 

I distil from the crassness of life 
What matters alone — Beauty. 
Take it. 

The Hungry Man 

What matters alone to me — it is Life, 
The crassness of life. 

37 



THE WATER NYMPH 

She 
When did you love me first? 

He 
When first I saw you, dear. 

She 



A year ago in June 

Out at the farm? Your eyes 

Had not been set on me 

Before. 



He 



O yes, they had. 
I'd seen your beauty clear 
As morning dew. I'd seen 
Your golden locks unloosed 
Caressing your white breasts; 
I'd seen them fall to kiss 
Your body, dear. 

38 



She 

No! 
He 

Yes, 

You cannot know, but shall 
I tell you how it was? — 
I'd gone to seek, one morn 
In early spring, a still 
Retreat far out from town 
Along the river's bank, 
A fav'rite nook of mine, 
Where bittern's cry and splash 
Of wild ducks scarce could break 
The peaceful calm. I'd gone 
To laze around and read 
In quiet— it's a way 
Of mine when tired of folks — 
Perhaps to throw a line 
And pull a fish or two 
Besides. The spot is down 
By Hunter's Bend, right close 
To swirling cataracts, 
But there's a pool this side 
That's off the channel, safe 
And deep — a splendid spot 
For swim or dive ; I've tried 
It once or twice myself. 

She 

Down by the alder clump 
Between the narrow beach 
And grassy swale ? 
39 



He 

Just where 
I'd dozed away, when splash! 
"Some one's just jumped to dive," 
I thought, awakened. 

She 

Oh! 

To think I'd come miles out 
To have my little plunge 
In freedom, just to fall 
A prey to prying eyes ! 

He 

Sh! don't call it that, 
My love. I thought at first 
To hail the diver, but 
Before I'd time to rise. 
He'd come out from the pool. 
The "he" was you. So dazed 
Was I, I stared and took 
You for a water-nymph — 
And so you are. 

She 

For shame! 

Why could not you have left? 

40 



He 

How could I, dear? The dry, 
Dead leaves that Fall had strewn 
Had crackled if I'd stirred, 
And whipped a flood of red 
Into your face. I could 
But lie and hold my breath 
And trust you would not know. 

She 
You could have looked away. 

He 

And so I could. But, Oh, 

You were too beautiful, 

My love; you were my nymph, 

My lovely water-nymph 

So fair. Your golden hair 

Caressed your bosom white 

And played with sunbeams bright. 

You were so beautiful and pure. 

So like a goddess free, 

I could have worshipped you 

And kissed your little feet 

A-glist'ning in the sun. 

And ever since you've been 

To me the water-nymph. 

She 

And that was why you blushed 
And stared so stupidly 
When first you met me — no! 
When first I met you? 

41 



He 

Yes, 
For you were not a girl 
Of human kind to me; 
You were my water-nymph 
So beautiful and free, 
Whose golden hair caressed 
Your bosom white, the nymph 
Whose little pearl-shod feet, 
A-glist'ning in the sun, 
I could have kissed. 

She 

And so 
I gave myself to you 
Before I knew you! 

He 

No, 

My love, say rather I 
Was yours before I learned 
To know your human form. 
And if you ask me when 
It was I loved you first, 
rU say I loved you first 
In early spring, the time 
I met the water-nymph. 



43 



CURTAINS 

I enter the Chinaman's laundry; 

And the merry queer-voiced gabbing, 

That hops about while the flat-irons slide on the 
wash, 

Ceases. The three are as mum as shining door- 
knobs, 

And rock as they stand in their places. 

Clattering their slippers on the floor 

And pressing and sliding their flat-irons on the 
wash. 

My fingers fumble in my pocket for the ticket, 

And my nostrils breathe the steamy air, 

And the Chinaman that shines most like a darkly 
burnished door-knob 

Shuffles to the counter. 

Patiently he stares a nascent smile. 

I find the black-daubed scrap of red and give it him. 

He shuffles to the rows of creamy parcels, 

Buttoned each with black-daubed scrap of red, 

And runs my ticket right to left and left to right 
and up and down 

To find its jagged edge a match. 

Ah ! two scraps of red mate happily, 

The black daubs torn apart by the Chinaman's de- 
cree 

Now kiss reunion for a moment. 

Must be my parcel ! Romance has its uses. 

"Fi'ty sick!" saj^s he and shoves the creamy bundle 
on the counter. 

"Fifty-six?"— 'Ti'ty sick!" 

Two quarters and a dime clink on the counter, 

Four coppers take their exit from a coin-filled box. 

While pocketing my change, I look at him, 
43 



And patiently he stares a nascent smile, 

While the others clatter their slippers on the floor 

And slide the flat-irons on the wash. 

"Nice day."— "Yeh, belly waum!" 

To the tune of "Fi'ty sick!" 

But when I've closed the door, 

I hear their queer-voiced gabbing 

Burst forth merrily and hop in the air. 

For when I enter, the curtain falls and the play 

halts, 
And when I leave, the curtain rises and the play 

resumes. 

Lucy and I pass honeyed nothings back and forth 

On the balcony 

And weave the ancient ageless web of romance. 

Each wrapped in each. 

But when he comes to join us, 

The honeyed nothings flee. 

For when we're two, 

The curtain's up and the play is on, 

But when we're three. 

The curtain's down and the play is hushed. 



44 



MY BOY 

There! way off 5^onder near the farther end 

Of the vacant lot — 

See the little bobbing patch of brown 

Surmounted by a darkish speck? 

That's my little boy, brown-jerseyed 

And capped with sailor blue. 

Look! his little legs rock side to side 

As, chased by reddish patch — 

That's Jack, his little friend that lives across the 

way from us — 
He runs and shrieks with laughter. 
Hear him? His voice is higher-pitched than Jack's, 
Ripples merrier and brighter (don't you think?). 
Oh, there he trips and sprawls — 
Not quite as steady on his pins as might be. 
But, then, he's only four. And now 
He's rolling in the sand yelling splitting peals. 
While Jack bombards him with more sand. 
She'll have a job to-night, his mother. 
To oust the sand-grains from his curly hair, 
And I shall threaten him with barber's shears 
For making such a nuisance of himself. 
Yes, that's my boy. 

Well, we must be going to the office — 
Can't stand forever gaping at the youngster. 
I'll have enough to do in the evening 
When, home again, I do his bidding. 
I'll have to swing him, lift him to the ceiling. 
Tell him the story of the bear and wolf 
(I've told him that a hundred times at least. 
But it's his favorite — and if I stray in my recital 
From the version he has fixed as orthodox, 
He'll shout a protest), and, worst of all, 
45 



I'll have to tell him why is this, and what is that, 
And what did Jack mean when he said *'Oh, cut it 

out!" 
''Don't use such words, my boy," I've told him time 

and time again, 
But what's the use? (I do it more 
To make his mother think I'm educating him.) 
He had the laugh on me the other day — 
He was as mulish as could be at table 
And when I, all out of patience, yelled at him, 
"Now, cut that out!" he gravely turned to me 
And asked, "Can daddies say such words? 
Why can they? tell me," but I changed the subject 
While I helped him to a piece of cake. 
It's far from easy, Bob, to do the right thing 
With an urchin — quite a strain. 
Yes, that was he out in the lot, 
My little boy. I bet he's all one sandy mess ! 

DANDELIONS 

He stood upon the porch, my little boy, 
And proudly held aloft the dandelions 
That he had gathered all himself. "Put these 
In water, keep them in a glass," he said. 
(Behind him, mellowed to a golden sparkle, 
Lazy stirred the pond beneath the wind's 
Caress. Two ducks quacked answer to a crow 
That, lighting on a maple, cawed a Sunday 
Yawn.) The wind drove silky threads of hair 
Down on his face — they seemed the little stems 
That held his golden smile like dangling flowers 
Merged into one. I took the dandelions 
And, thankful for the other flower, I thanked 
Him for his gift, while off he ran for more. 

46 



THE OTHER SIDE 

In childhood days I often hearkened 

Admiringly to bugle call of postman 

Rushing in at golden dusk 

In his parcel-laden wagon to the open court 

Whereon the post-house gave. 

I lived right next the post-house, 

That to my childish eyes 

Reared itself up proudly and impregnably 

Like thick-walled castle turreted in rugged strength. 

No unimportant part the post-house 

Seemed of my world of romance, 

Scarce second to the storks, 

Grave emissaries from a mystic land. 

One day the little town was all agog 
With an elbowing crowd to see a fire. 
The stir and strange alarums frightened me. 
But most of all that day has fixed itself for ever 
On the tablet of my mind because the castellated 

post-house 
Transformed itself into a longish windowed thing 

of brick. 
The maid that minded me, 

Lured like the rest by the magic of a burning house, 
Held me by the hand and led me to the crowd. 
Led me to a street I ne'er had tramped. 
It seemed another world, had not the kindly look 
Of street and alley known to me; 
And yet 'twas but a mere stone's throw from where 

I lived 
And gazed upon the post-house walls. 
She took me through the post-house gate 
Into the court and then — 
47 



I held my breath as we adventured boldly — 
Right through the mighty building 
Out to the other entrance leading to the street 
The crowd was on, the street I ne'er had seen. 
Strange! I'd never thought the post-house had two 

sides, 
And as it now betrayed itself an unfamiliar longish 

bit of windowed brick, ^ 

My heart was troubled. 
So might a friend you'd known for years 
In a moment of ill-considered act or word 
Of a sudden reveal himself a stranger. 
I could not reconcile myself to think this unknown 

line of red 
Hearkened with me to the bugle call at golden dusk ; 
I would not let it share in the romance I had built 
Out of the side I knew — my side. 

'Tis well we know but one side of our souls, 

The side that looks out on the open court of self, 

The side that's glamor-tinted. 

'Tis well we cannot call our own the other side, 

The bit of brick that fronts the world 

And marks us for our neighbors. 

I thank God that I cannot penetrate the walls of the 

soul 
And see the me that's seen by you. 



48 



MUTUAL UNDERSTANDING 

My dog and I, we get on very well — 
Oh, very well, indeed. We understand 
Each other perfectly, you see. Each swish 
Of his stubby tail, each upward pleading look, 
Each choppy yelp or squirmy growl, is clear 
To me as any word of man; it needs 
No speech confirmatory of its meaning. 
Delight and hunger, shame, repentance, all 
The joys and pains and mental conflicts known 
Of man my dog makes dumbly clear to me. 
I read him like a book — no, like a man. 
I bother not with dog psychology. 
But treat him like a man of doggish look 
And habits. Works well, anyhow. We've not 
A quarrel had as yet (far more than I 
Can say of any man or woman known 
To me). I think he treats me just the same 
Mutatis mutandis J I mean he seems to look 
On me as psychologically dog, 
Just outwardly a man ; and when I wrinkle 
My brow or read a book, I'm sure he thinks 
I'm busied with some doggishly correct 
Intelligible act or thought — at least 
His look is all approval. So — the moral — 
By misinterpreting each other wholly 
And scorning speech, two souls can easiest 
In mutual understanding live. How lucky 
I have no knowledge of the barking code 
Or cut of doggish soul! How lucky, too. 
He's never learned to talk nor studied James' 
Psychology! For then I doubt if we 
Could quite so sympathetically chum. 

49 



A CONVERSATION 

You sit before me and we talk 

Calmly and unafraid. 

Calmly and unafraid 

I sink my net into your soul, 

That flows before me like a limpid stream. 

I draw forth many lovely things 

That you had thought were hid; 

I draw forth many ugly things 

That you had thought were pure, 

That you had never thought to hide. 



THE DREAMER FAILS OF SUCCESS 

You and I started off for the mountain top 
Clad in snow, standing out 
Clear and strong in the light, 
Clear and bold o'er the land. 

You went straight to the mark. 

Over the fields and across the brooks and past the 

bushes and all, 
You never strayed from the road 
Lengthening straight over hill and plain, 
You never halted nor rested to gladden your eyes 
With the sunbeam's play or the butterfly's merry-go- 
round. 
But on you pressed, tireless. 
Intent, strung, 

Until you reached the mountain top 
Clad in snow. But you were too spent 
To stand out clear and strong in the light 
And look about you. 

50 



But as for me, I could not stick to the road 

That led to the whfte-clad mountain top. 

Once I threw me down on the grass, 

Face to the sky. 

And gazed on the heavy-sailing clouds, 

Pondering their fantastic forms 

And giving them names 

And wondering whence they came and whither they 

went 
Unerringly, like sail-boats 
Languidly gliding along on a calm blue sea ; 
And I saw the tops of the fir trees high above me 
Gently nodding back and forth. 
And suddenly it seemed they were camel's-hair 

brushes 
Writing a language of signs on the sky. 
And the signs that they wrote were 
Heavy-sailing clouds in fantastic forms; 
And as I gazed in the sky and lost the hang of all 

that was near, 
I seemed to float on air and I seemed somehow 
To bend the firs to my will and to make them 

write my dreams 
On the sky, and the dreams that they wrote were 
Heavy-sailing clouds in fantastic forms. 

Once I strayed from the road and came to a great 

salt lake. 
'Twixt the lake and the sky 
There circled many gulls 
Cleaving paths for themselves with wing-flaps strong 

and sure; 
Once in a while a gull would soar aloft and make 

for the sky, 
Only to fall to a lower track in the air, 
51 



And once in a while a gull would fly out of sight, 

swift and low, 
Only to circle back to its starting point; 
And as the aerial tracks of the gulls lengthened and 

shortened 
And criss-crossed back and forth, 
It seemed to me that the gulls were quickly sailing 

kites 
Moored to strings that lengthened and shortened; 
And as I gazed in the air and lost the hang of all 

that was near, 
I seemed to hold the strings in my hands and fly 

the kites as I willed, 
For the kites were my thoughts and desires 
That circled restlessly 

And aspired to heights and far-off distances, 
Only to fall again in their wonted tracks. 

And so I lazed along the road and off 

And made the whole world mine. 

I never reached the mountain top 

Clad in snow. Yet I would not change with you, 

For what can one see from the mountain top 

That I have not seen on the road and ofiE? 



52 



DISCORDS 

Dearest friend, I pray you for silence. 
I know you mean to banish sorrow from my mind, 
Exorcising with your cheery voice, recounting cheer- 
ful things. 

friend, have mercy! 

You cannot annihilate the stream that winds through 
my soul. 

Mournful and sluggish under the brooding willows; 

You can but force your rippling torrent, racing gar- 
rulously, 

Into the middle channel of my stream, 

But the waters mingle not. 

And my soul is tortured by the flowing side by side 

Of incommensurable rhythms. 

You cannot hush the sombre-tinted line of music, 

Harmonized in minor chords, 

That drifts on the current of my soul ; 

You can but lay upon my strand your garish line 
of music, 

Harmonized in major chords, 

But these two strands refuse to spin themselves into 
a weft, 

But each drifts hostile on the current of my soul. 

(You know that mingled major chord and minor 

Torture the ear with a dissonance 

Excruciating like the sawing of a nail.) 

Silence, friend, 

1 pray you — dearest friend ! 

In the friendly silence perhaps the sluggish stream 
will seep away 

53 



In time, leaving the willows high and dry 

And thirsting for your rippling torrent. 

In the friendly silence perhaps the sombre-tinted 

strains will die into inaudible mist 
In time, leaving the current of my soul 
Free to float your garish strand. 
But meanwhile 
Silence, silence, 
Dearest friend, I pray you — 
For it is not merry in my soul. 

LOVE 

I'd read of it and dreamt of it 

And longed for it; 

I'd thought it must be chivalrous and vast 

And nobly heaven-storming. 

The word had set my thoughts on knights 

And valiant combat, humble worship, 

Lily smiles received in ecstasy. 

But now I know it's more than this, far more, 

And you have taught me, love. 

It means that when your little feet come tripping, 

A sjmphony floods in my ears; 

It means that when I run my fingers through your 

hair, 
I cannot see for happiness. 



54 



OUR LOVE 

Our love is singing, dear, 
Full-throated, 

Rising drunk with joyous passion, 
And carolling, carolling 
Madl)^ in its abandoned flight 
Upward, ever upward, 
Cloudward, my beloved. 
Skyward, my radiant blessed love. 

Our love is trembling, dear, 

Deep-glowing 

Like golden sunbeam darkened in red wine, 

And warming, warming 

Our hearts like golden light that warms our hair. 

Illumining our eyes with passion, 

Warming, my beloved, 

Burning, my radiant blessed love. 

Our love is trembling, dear, 

Deep-throbbing 

In its ecstasy of happiness, 

And weeping, weeping 

Shyly, blissfully, 

Overcome with the choking fulness of its joy. 

Trembling, my beloved, 

Trembling, my radiant blessed love. 



55 



DANGLING CORPSES 

I know that which livelier 

Shakes in the wind 

Than the noisy shutters down the street. 

I know that which merrier 

Swings in the wind 

Than the flaming banners down the street. 

I know a monstrous presence 

O'ershadowing the life 

That simmers on the street. 

I see the corpse erect 

That dangles from the gallows' head, 

That shakes and swings in the wind 

And casts a shadow. 

Upon the laughter and the bustle of your soul's 

domain 
There falls no shadow of a corpse 
Dangling from a grinning past? 
Thrice blessed! 



56 



TO DEBUSSY 

"La Cathedrale Engloutie** 

Like a faint mist, murkily illumined, 

That rises imperceptibly, floating its way nowhence, 
nowhither, 

Now curling into some momentary shape, now seem- 
ing poised in space — 

Like a faint mist that rises and fills before me 

And passes; 

Like a vague dream, fitfully illumined. 

That wanders irresponsibly, flowing unbid no- 
whence, nowhither, 

Now flashing into a lurid flame-lit scene, now seem- 
ing lost in haze — 

Like a vague dream that lights up and drifts within 
me 

And passes; 

So passes through my ear the memory of the misty 

strain, 
So passes through my mind the memory of the 

dreamy strain. 



57 



DIRTY SPRING 

The streets are filled with muck, 

A dirty mess of melting snow and mud, 

Splashing recklessly 

As heavy-footed horses trot along. 

Down from the snow-encrusted roofs 

An icy dirty trickle pelts the pavement, 

Little splashes mid the universal splash. 

And the sky is blotched with dirty-gray cloudlets 

Speeding under the sun. 

The porches dribble with wet and tJiey grently 

steam 
Where the sun, piercing the dirty cloudlets. 
Can cook them. 

An irritated wind blows intermittently. 
Banging doors, scattering wisps, flapping capes and 

skirts. 

The snow-locked beauty of winter is gone, 

The rigors are loosening up; 

Clean summer's not here yet. 

The city moves from cleanly cold to cleanly warmth 

Immersed in dirt. 

Therefore, my friends, take heart! 
You must not despair 
When the passage from old to new is dirty ; 
When you've left the old realm of glittering cold 
And have not yet reached the new realm of glisten- 
ing warmth; 
When dead tradition is back of you. 
When the new-born promise is ofi ahead of you, 
And you struggle and splash in a welter of mud. 

58 



AN EASTER DAY 

'Tis Easter day to-day! 

And what a day for rendering jubilant thanks 

To him who made the day! 

The snow has melted off the streets, 

That now smile in the sun, 

Dry and clean. 

How pure they seem in the sun and the rugged 

wind, 
How pure they seem under the purer sky! 
The sky is but a rind of blue 
Set o'er a vast and gleaming world of light. 
The world a blue-surmounted temple 
Shouting joy and thundering thankfulness 
To him who made the day; 
And in this thundering tha,nkfulness 
I hear a thousand voices vibrant with joy. 
I hear the peeping sparrows as they fidget 
About the leafless trees; 
I hear the rugged wind blow lustily; 
I hear the timid blades of grass recite their matins, 
Promising to cloak the earth with green ; 
And most of all I hear the blazing light 
Poured earthward by the sun, 
Trumpet back a thundering thankfulness 
To him who made the day. 

I, too, would drown my voice among the thousand 

voices 
Thundering thankfulness, vibrant with joy. 
And so I let my steps ring out 
Triumphant on the blue-surmounted temple's floor 
And mount in thankfulness 

59 



To him who made the day. 

And as I wandered, free as bird and wind, 

I met a friend who hurried with a book; 

I tried to hold him on the temple's floor 

To sing with me a song of jubilant thanks 

To him who made the day. 

Perhaps the blazing light too loudly trumpeted for 
him — 

He scurried, rabbit-fashion, off into a cross-sur- 
mounted house 

Where thanks, he said, were offered up to God. 

SUMMER IN THE WOODS 

The lazy day is humming, 
It is drowned in a languid drone, 
And I, stretched out in drowsy indolence 
Upon the grass, shaded but blotched with sun, 
Can feel its lazy heart beat slow and warm 
In sympathy with mine. 

There is a thickish, honeyed feeling in the air that 
lulls. 

An image vaguely, sluggishly — half dream, half 

thought — 
Begins to separate from out the formless, bundled 

mass of sense 
That veils my soul — 

Gone! the wasp has caught it in its buzzing flight 
And turned it to a droning revery 
That floats off there before me, 
Now biting thick into my ear, 
Now thinning out into a distant hum. 
It's all but melted into the drowsy murmur 
That gilds the encompassing silence, 
60 



When it lives again as a shy rustling 

That has gently stolen on me; 

And when I close my eyes, it seems the rustle of 

my soul 
In lazy flight and shy, 
And when I peer through eyes half-opened at the 

sky. 
It seems the whispered confidences of the clouds 

among themselves 
As they dally by, 
But when I look in mid air, 
Then I know it is the leaves fidgeting in the w^ind. 

What is that faintly lapping sound off yonder? 

Timidly it seems to wash something. 

At first I see but trees huddled darkly — 

Then a ribboned little patch of silver 

Crushed between the trees and the darker earth. 

The river! 



6i 



I 



BEFORE THE STORM 

Evil's in the air. 

I feel it throbbing, sighing, twisting all about me 

And it presses dull against my heart 

And makes my eyes to stare. 

Evil whines in the sickening wind 

(Like a Chinese stringed bow 

Whining out a plangent strangled jejune tune), 

The loathsome wind that drops from the trees 

And shivers down my spine. 

Evil sits in the gaunt bare forks 

Of the dead old oaks 

That sway in lazy apathy. 

Evil sails through the air 

As the greedy crows caw and croak 

In their lumbering flight from oak to oak, 

In their offal-dropping flight. 

And the leaden sky is laden with evil, 

With the filthy dirty-moist clouds 

That smudge the atmosphere 

And dome the smothered earth. 

O Lord! crack the air with a thunderbolt 

And let me breathe! 

A MOONLESS NIGHT 

I'm swallowed up in night. 

That, flapping noiselessly his giant bat- 
wings, hovers motionless. 

The blackness penetrates me slowly, slowly, 

Till I vanish and am night; 

The silence gnaws into me 

Till I hear the noiseless flapping of the 
giant wi"ngs of night. 

Up above the stars are not of night ; 

They do but timorously peep at the void 

And, frightened, huddle close and shiver. 
62 



THE RAIN 

Quickening life-giving rain! 
Drench my loosened hair with thy 

tempestuous flood, 
Trickling down rivulets that earthward 

plunge, 
Eager to kiss my thirsty feet. 

O rain, beneficent clinging rain 
That splashest headlong down from a 

gray vault. 
Embrace my naked body. 
Cool its fevered yearning. 

Streaming life-giving rain ! 
Beat strongly on my shoulders, 
Burdened with care. 
Free them with your cleansing. 

O rain, beneficent, whipping rain 
That drivest storm-tossed against me. 
Play upon my laughing breasts, 
Happy to kiss thee, rain. 

WATER 

Rain and snow and hail and ice. 
The river rolling to the sea. 
The ocean rolling to the shore — 
I think that Nature takes a deal 

of time and space 
To have her little say. 

Man is artist. 

See him put his soul into a drop 

of it 
And make a tear! 

63 



THE MOTH 

Fluttering, fluttering, 

A mad white winged speck, 

Flitting across my vision 

In quick little angular spurts 

All jointed into a noiseless flash, 

Drab-white like the ghost of a fire-fly 

(Should not ghosts of fire-flies flicker by 

day?). 
The merest ghost of irritation, 
Absent-minded I, 
Makes me clap my hands smartly. 
And the little moth, 
Powdered in a vise, 
Clings, nondescript fluflf, to my palm. 
First the silence of life. 
The bang of fate, 
Then the silence of death. 
Nothing to me. 
Anything to God ? 

HELPLESS REVOLT 

I have no respect for what is. 

I can not mend and patch, 

I can not bend my soul to the twist 

That will make it fit with the brutal fact, 

That will make it yield to the tyrant world. 

My soul stands firm. 

It would annihilate all in its rage and build anew, 

Rather than bend. 

Therefore it breaks, and the brutal fact remains 

And the tyrant world wags on. 

64 



LIBERTY 

No, Liberty, they shall not make j^ou die. 

They shall not squeeze you to the wall and choke 

your life out 
With all their throttling collectivities and dismal 

efficiency-mongering. 
Or even so, w^ill you not slip into the hearts of many, 
When the few have thought to down you, 
And build in each a fortress bidding defiance 
To all their throttling collectivities? 

But should they banish you in very truth. 

Come take my hand, 

We'll off into the woods and live on roots. 

We'll climb the inaccessible mountain peaks 

And melt the snow for drink. 

We'll leave the hogs to fatten in their troughs ; 

We'll starve to death, perhaps. 

But not before we've breathed some air. 



65 



DUST 

Dust everywhere! 

I cannot see things for the dust-forms 

Draped about and over them. 

I see a sudden gleam leap here, 

A flash of steel leap there; 

I catch a fleeting hint of rounded forms, — 

Then dust again — clouds on clouds. 

I struggle through, like vessel ploughing in a fog. 

But then — see! 

OH there a fire has burnt a circle in the enveloping 

dust 
And set your beautiful countenance, my love. 
In glowing light that tints the encircling dust 
To a luminous halo. 
But the farther dust is still a thicket 
Where things are turbulently hid. 

WINGS 

If I had wings to lift me to the moon, 

I'd fold them snugly about me and walk my garden 

plot. 
My wings are barely strong enough to lift me to the 

hillock's crest; 
That is why they flutter towards the sun. 



66 



LONELINESS 

Vaguely fretful, up and down the lonely streets I 

walk 
And walk with neither aim nor thought, but like a 

shadow stalk 
Along, a sullen restless shadow, lifeless and yet alive, 
Not with the life of vigor live, nor life of such as 

strive. 

Fitting comrade of my moody self where'er I go. 
The lifeless rain keeps drizzling on drop after drop, 

and low 
And lower hang the sullen clouds, as were they 

fain to crush 
Utterly the starveling life beneath and make it hush. 

Love, I think if you were here, I think the streets 

would ring 
With mirth, the shadow'd take a tripping gait and 

sing 
And laugh, and then the rain, the cheerless drizzling 

rain, would beat 
Merrily down, the while the clouds hang lower us 

to greet. 



67 



VEXATION 

Vexation rules my soul. 

I'd take a keen delight in giving pain, 

In stepping on your toes and pinching you and 

tweaking you, 
In lashing you with venomed tongue. 
How hard to keep from slapping your face! 

How good to see the whole world scowl and squint 
and sneer! 

In passing quickly by a shop, 

I glimpsed a silly maiden on the cover of a maga- 
zine — 

Her parent thought to make her sweetly smile, no 
doubt, 

She only leered a sickly smirk. 

I looked up at the moon. 

The smiling man in the moon they talk about 

Is all a myth, I saw. 

He looked at me and scowled as though to split his 

crinkled face, 
And if he'd had a mouth, 
He would have spit on the earth, I know. 

What a jaded air the houses have! 
The snarling dogs and ugly yawning cats 
Slink in the shadows; 

Had I the time to stop and fool with them, 
I'd pull their tails and kick them hard. 
And what a miserable stew 
Of scowling, squinting, sneering men 
And leering, simpering women — 
This aimless crowd I jostle through! 
68 



'Tis good to live, you say ? 

Why, yes, 'tis good to live to see them 

Make a sorry mess of living. 

Shovi^ me a happy man! 

ril box his ears. 

SNARED 

Ensnared on earth, 

The soul in pain did tumble restlessly from 

place to place. 
It found no peace. 

They would not let it rest and contemplate 
In longing calm the home it strayed from, 
They would not let it skyward gaze. 
And when it sought a moment's solace on a 

mountain peak 
Beyond the din of matter, 
Unseen powers pulled it down and choked it 
In a fume-filled pit. 

It tumbled cheerlessly from place to place ; 
It would have skyward flown 
But that they held it snared on earth. 
It gasped for breath, yet could not die. 
And so it tumbled, tumbled, tumbled on the 

earth. 



69 



THE SOUL 

Lo! I am many. 

There are many chambers in my soul 

With windows looking out from one to other. 

You cannot hold me. 

If you seize me here, 

Lo! I am fled and laugh at you from there. 

Sometimes I sit in a room of state, 

Severely girt with pillars high and marble-white; 

Herein I muse on principles, ideals, morals, 

Herein I plan to build the starward way 

That leads to God. 

But if you knock, thinking to find me in, 

Lo! I am gone, 

OfE to the chamber of stormy desires, 

Where passions rule. 

Where I can gorge myself with appetites and lusts. 

You knock and enter in the room begirt with pil- 
lars high 

And converse hold with a shadow left behind to 
mock at you. 

My poor deluded friend. 

Can you not hear your discourse grave 

Answered with derisive peals from the seat of 
revelry ? 

Perhaps it's just as well you're deaf. 

I have a room where angels sing. 

Where many instruments make melody; 

Here all the air is vibrant with celestial harmonies. 

Here sorrow turns to joy, 

Here joy's serenity. 

70 



I have a room where hammers ring, 
Where all is stir and bustle; 
Sometimes it pleases me to make a racket, 
Nailing planks, 

I have a room that's littered o'er with books 
And maps and measuring rods; 
Sometimes it pleases me to ask a question here or two 
And set to work to find an answer. 

There is a room I often fancy, 

When, tired of star-quest, lusts, reposeful melody, 

Tired of labor and inquiry, 

I sink in easy-chair and feel a joyous life-force course 

Within my veins and long for — what? 

I cannot tell. 

Accepting all, rejecting all, I long for the unknown, 

I long for realms never traversed. 

For realms that shall ne'er be traversed. 

And many other chambers in my soul there are — 

I do not know them all. 

There are some dungeons too that frighten me; 

You cannot enter these — 

I've thrown the keys away. 

I like my odd ramshackle house with its countless 

rooms ; 
I like to flit about, an Ariel, from room to room 
And fool you. 
If you seize me here, 

Lo ! I am fled and laugh at you from there. 
For I am many. 



71 



A PRAYER FOR PRESERVATION 

O Lord, preserve my soul ; 

Teach me to glory in Its flight. 

And make it strong, 

Like the flaming red of the western sky 

That stares triumphant at the murky east, 

Like the storm-cloud that flashes and dins ; 

And make it light, 

That it wing aloft 

And shake itself free of the pressing weight 

Of other souls; 

And make it unafraid. 

That it fear not the tortures of Hell 

Or the thrills of dizzy heights 

Or the choking mud of the depths ; 

And make it indifferent, 

That it hear not flattery 

And laugh at hate 

And amuse itself mightily with the taunts 

Of other souls; 

And make it proud. 

That it despise itself 

And scorn the bribes of the blaspheming ones 

Who call themselves thy priests. 

O Lord, preserve my soul; 

Let it not perish in the cuddling warmth 

That kills all souls 

But those that have thy blessing, Lord. 



72 



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